Love Lessons (17 page)

It was me.

They came home just after eleven.

‘How were the kids? Did they wake? Did you give Lily her bottle? Did Harry want you to read to him?' Mrs Raxberry said in a rush as she burst through the door.

‘They've been fine,' I said. ‘Lily cried around ten and I warmed her bottle, but she was asleep again before I could feed her. There hasn't been a peep out of Harry.'

‘Great, great! I'd better go and wake him for a wee then, otherwise we'll have a wet bed. Here's your money, Prue. Thanks so much. I hope you can maybe babysit again some time?'

I took a deep breath. ‘I'd love to.' I shrugged on my jacket and went into the hall. I didn't even make eye contact with Mr Raxberry. I felt as if I'd been snuggled up with him all evening. If I so much as glanced at the real man I was sure I would blush.

‘Hey, where are you going, Prue?' he called after me.

‘Home.'

‘Well, hang on, I'm giving you a lift.'

It was what I'd been thinking about ever since I agreed to babysit, but now I felt weirdly scared.

‘No, no, it's OK. I'll get the bus. It's not far, I'll be fine, honestly. Bye!' I burbled.

‘I'm taking you home in the car,' Mr Raxberry said firmly. ‘Stop arguing.'

So I stopped. I called goodbye to his wife and then Mr Raxberry and I walked down his garden path together.

‘Here we are,' he said, opening the car door for me. ‘Oh God, excuse the kids' rubbish. We don't even notice it any more.'

I kicked several juice cartons, a little truck and a set of plastic keys out of my way and sat in the front seat. Mr Raxberry got in the driver's seat.

‘Seat belt,' he said to me.

I stared at him, I looked at my lap, I dithered anxiously. I'd been driven in a car so rarely I didn't know how to use a seat belt. Dad had once run a van for book-buying expeditions, but had rarely taken us out as a family. When the van needed a new gearbox several years ago he'd had to scrap it.

Mr Raxberry leaned towards me. For one mad magical moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Then he reached past me and pulled on a strap. He was simply fixing my seat belt for me.

‘There now, safely strapped in,' he said, starting up the car. ‘What did you do with yourself this evening, then?'

I blushed, but it was mercifully dark in the car. ‘Oh, I read a bit, did a little homework. Whatever,' I said vaguely.

‘I hope it wasn't too lonely for you. You can always bring a friend with you another time, or maybe your sister?' he said lightly.

‘No! No, I'm fine by myself, I don't mind a bit,' I said quickly.

He looked over at me, nodding. ‘I know. I liked my own company as a kid too. I used to go fishing most weekends. It wasn't to catch the fish; I used to feel sick and sorry if I ever
caught
anything. I just wanted to be by myself for a bit.'

‘Do you still go fishing now?'

‘Chance would be a fine thing! At the weekends we do the Sainsbury's run, and then I look after the kids while Marianne sees her girlfriends, and then on Sunday we drive all the way to Basingstoke to see her parents for a Sunday roast, and often Marianne's sister's there with
her
husband and kids, so we're all very busy playing Happy Families.' He kept his voice very light and even. I didn't know whether he was happy or bitter or bored, and I couldn't really ask.

We only had about ten minutes together and there was so much I wanted to ask him. But everything I wanted to know was too direct, too personal.

Do you think I'm really any good at art?

Do you like me?

Why did you draw me in your secret sketchbook?

Instead, I chattered childishly about fishing, asking about lines and hooks and bait, as if I
cared
. I felt as helpless as a fish on the end of a line myself. He was reeling me in tighter and tighter until I was out of my element.

We turned into my street and I gave him directions to the shop.

‘Oh, it's
this
shop! I've been here. I've had a good browse in the art section, but someone gave me a sarcastic ticking off for using the shop like a library.' He paused. ‘Would that have been your dad?'

‘That would
definitely
have been my dad,' I said. ‘No wonder we have hardly any customers. He's always so rude to them.'

‘How
is
your dad?'

‘Well, he can't talk much still, and he can't really walk either.' I sniffed, suddenly near tears, feeling guilty because he'd have given Mum and Grace such a hard time at the hospital tonight.

Mr Raxberry didn't quite understand. ‘Oh Prue, I'm so sorry,' he said. His hand reached out and covered mine.

The car took off like a rocket, soaring into space, whirling up and over the moon, his hand on mine, his hand on mine, his hand on mine . . .

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze, and then put his own hand back on the steering wheel. The car hurtled back into the earthly atmosphere. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. We sat still, neither of us saying anything, staring straight ahead.

‘Well,' he said. I heard him swallow. ‘Perhaps you'd better go in now.'

‘Yes. Thank you for taking me home, Mr Raxberry.'

That made him look at me. ‘Hey, what's with this formal Mr Raxberry thing? Everyone at school calls me Rax – you know that.'

‘OK then. Rax.' I giggled. ‘It sounds funny.'

‘Better than Keith.'

‘Why doesn't your wife call you Rax?'

‘Oh. She's known me too long. We were childhood sweethearts.'

I wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not. ‘You knew each other when you were at school?'

‘From when we were fourteen.'

‘
My
age?'

‘Yep.'

‘Goodness.'

‘I take it you haven't got a sweetheart?'

‘No!'

‘I'm glad to hear it. Off you go then. See you at school.'

‘Yes. Thank you. Goodbye . . . Rax.' I giggled again and then undid my seat belt and jumped out of the car. He waited until I let myself in the shop door. I turned and waved and he waved back and then drove off.

I wanted to stay in the dark shop, breathing in the musty smell of old books, going over our car ride again and again, remembering every word, every gesture, every touch. I could hear Mum calling me from her bedroom, fearful at first in case I might be a burglar, though what self-respecting thief would want crumpled Catherine Cookson paperbacks, battered Ladybirds, leatherette Reader's Digest compilations and £4.99 in the till?

‘Prudence? Is that you?'

No, Mum, I'm not me any more. I'm this new girl flying above the dusty floor. I want to stay up up up in the air
.

I heard the creak of her bed, then the stomp stomp of her slippered feet. There was a patter from Grace too, and the bang of our bedroom door as she flung it open. I sighed and started up the stairs.

I told them all about the house and the furniture and the children and the wife and the television programmes. Then I pressed the five-pound notes into Mum's hand.

‘But it's
your
money, Prue!'

‘I want to pay you back for the maths tuition money.'

‘You're such a good girl,' she said, making me feel
bad
.

I kissed her goodnight and went to bed. Grace started asking me all sorts of questions, but I told her I was too tired to start answering anything. I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I wondered if he was lying likewise, or whether he slept curled round his wife.

‘Prue!
Please
tell me how you got on with Rax,' Grace whispered.

I pretended to be asleep.

‘Prue!'

I still didn't answer. She got out of her own bed and tried to clamber into mine.

‘Prue, tell me, what did he say on the way home?' she whispered, her hair in my face, her big soft body pressed against mine.

‘You're squashing me! Move
over
. I was asleep.'

‘No you weren't. You can't fool me, Prue. You're nuts about him, aren't you?'

‘Of course I'm not. He's a boring old
teacher
, years and years older than me, and he's married with two children.'

‘Yes, but you still fancy him.'

‘No, I
don't
,' I said, and I pushed her out of bed.

‘You do,' she said, sprawled on the floor. ‘Ouch! I think you're nuts. You could have any boy you want. You could even have Toby Baker, yet you want old Rax!'

I pulled the covers over my head. I couldn't hear her any more. I just heard my own thoughts, drumming in my head like the blood at my temple.

I hardly slept but I got up early and cleaned and swept the shop. I carefully dusted Dad's Magnum Opus, and then spent ages copying out the first few sentences in large print, wondering if Dad might be able to read it and then say the words out loud – words he'd been composing half his life, chanting them under his breath as if they were a holy mantra.

‘That's your dad's book! Careful with it. What are you doing?' Mum fussed.

I sighed and explained.

‘Oh Prue! What a good idea! Why didn't I think of that. You're
so
clever.'

‘Tell that to my teachers,' I said. ‘They all think I'm thick thick thick.'

‘Well, this Mr Raxberry can't think that or he'd never leave you in charge of his kiddies,' said Mum.

I ducked my head so she couldn't see I was blushing. I worked on Dad's book while Mum stood downstairs in the empty shop and Grace spent hours on the phone chatting to Iggy and Figgy. I flipped through Dad's various notebooks and stray pieces of paper and scrapbooks and journals, trying to pick out key passages. I stared at his small, cramped, backward-sloping scribble until my eyes blurred.

I still didn't really
understand
it. I'd thought it way above my head. Now I read it carefully, page after page, and I realized something so sad. It wasn't really difficult at all. There was no extraordinary philosophical theory, no dynamic take on the human condition, no overriding theme, no new angle. It was just Dad rambling and ranting. It held no meaning for anyone but himself. Maybe it didn't even hold any meaning for him now.

I closed his book, wanting to hide it away. It exposed Dad too painfully. It was like looking at him in his baggy underwear.

‘Prue? Can you come down a minute?' Mum was shouting at me from the shop.

I didn't take any notice.

‘
Prue!
Will you come down here? There's someone asking for you!'

I leaped up and went flying down the stairs, combing my hair with my fingers, tugging at my awful dress, wishing I had some decent clothes, wanting to check myself in the mirror but terrified he'd give up and go if I kept him waiting any longer.

I stumbled into the shop, cheeks burning, scarcely able to breathe. I looked all round. He wasn't there. I blinked. Mum came into focus, gesturing at some stupid boy standing by the door. Not some boy, any old boy. It was Toby Baker.

I sighed. ‘Oh, it's you,' I said ungraciously.

‘Hi, Prue,' he said, not at all put out. ‘How are you doing?'

I stared at him as if he was mad.

‘Your mum says she doesn't need you to work in the shop this morning, so I thought we could maybe do that tuition thing. You know, me help you with your maths and you could hear me do a bit of reading. I've got my books with me.' He patted his rucksack.

‘Isn't that lovely!' said Mum. ‘Well, where would you two like to work? I suppose you could always sit at your dad's desk, Prue.'

‘No, I thought we could go out somewhere in the town, McDonald's maybe, and have a cup of coffee first. We'd kind of relax then, so it wouldn't be like a school situation,' Toby said.

Mum nodded, mesmerized by his blond good looks and sweet manners. I heard a little gasp behind me. Grace had come running downstairs after me and was gawping at him. Her fingers twitched to start dialling Iggy and Figgy on the phone.

‘Sorry, Toby, I can't,' I said. ‘I've got stuff to do.'

‘No you
haven't
,' Grace said.

‘You've been a lovely helpful girl. You can go and relax a bit now,' said Mum. She looked worried, but she added determinedly, ‘I think it's an excellent idea you two getting together and helping each other with your lessons.'

I didn't want to at all, but I couldn't say so right to Toby's face. I mumbled my way through several more excuses, none of which held up – and ended up being dispatched towards the town with Toby.